I could sit here all day and tell you about how I was born premature and given thirty days to live.

I could also tell you about how I lost my religion.

However, that's not what this story is about...

I was eleven years old when I had my first panic attack, this followed moving to a new town.

I was in my mother's room, and I had this terrifying feeling that I was going to die.

My heart was racing, I was shaking yet I was burning hot to the touch, and I felt nauseous.

She told me that I was having a panic attack, something new to me but she had been dealing with all her life.

Now here I am, at eighteen years old, wishing it would go back to the way it was before.

I no longer have panic attacks, not in the previous form anyway.

Let me just explain it like this...

I am not shy.

I would love nothing more than to sit down and have a conversation with someone.

I would love to be able to smile and laugh with you.

I can't.

I am not rude.

I am one of the nicest people you will ever meet, I would give you the shirt off my back.

I try to project that outwardly but you can't manage to see it.

I don't mean to break eye contact with you with you and trust me there is nothing interesting about my black converse sneakers.

I have to keep painting my finger nails because if I dont, I will bite them.

I don't mean to pull my phone out at inappropriate times, but it's my crutch.

My "little helper" is Zofran, a small pill to help prevent nausea.

I can't be in a relationship. Just a boy sending me a text is enough to make me vomit.

I cannot answer a telephone call.

I am forever ashamed of myself for a disorder that I can't control.

My greatest wish, is that I would die.

That would be the greatest relief.

Please, set me free.